“We have our faults and strengths, our sentiments and resilience,” Sorrow ventures. “And we’re still standing.”
“Not to mention, still pretty,” Envy says with a wink, inciting mirth from the crowd. “Humanity will endure without our intervention.”
“A mortal boy once taught me not to underestimate his kind,” Love says, smiling at Andrew. “If left to its own devices, the human realm won’t fall apart any less than ours will. If we are equal, we forfeit the magic of our bows, the magic of control, in favor of a new mythology.”
“One that inspires instead of controls,” Anger finishes.
More talking, more speeches, more debates. What will this new mythology be? If fate and free will are not separate but the same, and if embracing that fact is the key to a balance, how must they treat their powers? How do they wield human emotions without actually controlling humans? And how will that preserve the life cycle of both humanity and the Peaks?
Envy recalls one of his talks with Sorrow in the cavern.
What does it mean to be a god or goddess?
Maybe it’s a blessing. The clincher is, we’ve misinterpreted what that blessing entails. Maybe it’s about embodying magic instead of forcing it on others? I don’t know, maybe we need to wield that blessing from a different angle. Then maybe we need to trust it, have a little more faith in it.
He makes a suggestion: a blessing. The same magic from another angle. A new way to bond with humanity instead of command it.
Heads bank left and right, intrigued by the notion.
Merry hops in place. “Gracious, how divine. A dedication.”
“A ritual,” Anger interprets.
Murmurs grow louder as deities discuss the possibilities. They were never given a choice of which root emotions to represent. And if they still cannot determine which to wield—for that cannot be altered, even by the stars—deities can at least decide how to wield them.
Instead of forcing emotions into mortals, what if each strike of an arrow serves as a blessing? A benediction that grants humans the ability to feel that emotion—to embrace the malevolent, precious ones and to endure the harsh, cluttered ones.
Just a blessing.
How every mortal chooses to absorb, and act on, that emotion throughout life…well, that’s up to the individual.
And it will be up to deities to relearn their bows. Each of them possesses the power to infuse as much, or as little, emotion as necessary. For ages, they’ve learned the varying intensities of a single strike. Barely any magic produces a mere puff, the mere essence of a feeling. So if immortals can imbue that minimal amount into his or her archery, it will be so faint as to yield a dedication rather than a command.
They’ll need more practice, more training in order to master this without fail. But that’s fine. None of them are going anywhere.
The attendants weave their fingers together and use the stargazer to beseech the celestials. Together, they ask for approval, for a blessing. And when they do, the constellations shimmer, tolling like bells.
Like an old tale. Like a legend. Like a myth.
Afterward, the room fills with a renewed sense of honor. There’s much to consider, much to try, and much to learn. But it’s a start.
It will probably always be a start.
The throng disperses, gods and goddesses departing to their homes throughout the Peaks and the mortal realm. The Court and Envy’s friends stay behind to address another decision. This new beginning calls for an officiation—a vow.
But in what form?
They debate this. Opinions spring forth while the stars wink, and the dragonflies whirl outside the dome. Everybody participates, contributing their experiences and perceptions.
Actually, not everybody.
A crucial detail occurs to the assembly: Malice has been silent this entire time.
The group casts the demon god a collective glance. To which, he runs his thumb across his lower lip. Uh-oh.
Envy sighs. “I know my face is distracting, but care to focus and share with the rest of this stellar clan?”
Malice lifts a taloned finger. “On one condition—what?” he asks when everyone groans. “So suspiciously suspicious. I haven’t even said anything yet. What do you take me for? A devil?”
“Malice needs paper,” Wonder translates, reading her soul mate’s expression. “He’s wearing his studious face.”
“You know me well, Wildflower.”
“Then say it, Demon.”
“For a start, anyone have a spare quill and a blank book?”
Andrew hustles from the dome, then returns with the notebook and pen he’d hidden in that stone crevice. Carefully, he rips out the pages filled with his and Love’s handwriting, tearing them neatly from the spine’s crease. Then he hands over the supplies. “Will these do?”
Malice accepts the notebook. “You know it, mate. But are you sure?”
“Why not? You carried it for me most of the time. I owe you.”
“I like being owed things.” The devil directs his wicked mien at Wonder. “Sooooo how many stars exist in the sky? How many legends came from them? And how many were stored in the Archives?”
“From centuries back?” she asks. “That number doesn’t exist, my love.”
“That makes for a ton of potential tales. Think there’s any wiggle room left?”
“To what end?” the butterfly ruler prods.
“And don’t leave out the good parts,” Envy requests.
A grin worms across Malice’s face. “I have an idea.”
***
None rest until they have a draft, with everyone contributing. Malice and Wonder are experts in this area, so they oversee the collaboration. They appoint Andrew as their partner, the trio taking turns transcribing the dictation.
Finished, they read it aloud. The abstract is rough, and it will take time to modify the contents, but that’s one luxury they have in abundance. And when they’re done, it’s going to be the longest mythical word count ever penned.
Silence fills the dais. Only one choice remains. Where to store this book?
Smirking, Malice jabs his thumb at Wonder. “Ask my favorite goddess. She might have a solution.”
Wonder taps the pen against her mouth, partially concealing a beam. “You might be right.”
After consenting to her proposition, the Court retires to the Palace of Starlight. A hodgepodge of eight remain, tasked with safeguarding the notebook. They say nothing more tonight, but just hug and bid one another farewell.
After yet another intermission, they’ll have a job ahead of them revising the draft, and then another job ahead of them restoring a certain former landmark. Wonder and Malice especially can’t wait for that. Envy’s pretty certain they’ll prove to be fussy generals, too. The notion makes him chuckle.
Again, a team of dragonflies offer rides. Out on the parapet, Love and Andrew hop onto one of the creatures and hoot, soaring toward her house. The same goes for Anger and Merry.
Sorrow hesitates beside Envy, one of her boot heels grinding repeatedly into the floor. “So, um. Enjoy sailing to the enclave.”
“What makes you think I’m not going to my house? And not by dragonfly?” Envy quips.
“Because I’ve spent three days with you. I’m hip to your tastes.”
“Yes,” he intones. “You are.”
That, and his transport is tethered at the lake.
Sorrow clears her throat. “Well, then. Goodnight.”
Envy hooks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sweet dreams.”
She walks backward while staring at him, then hitches a ride with one of the winged creatures. Envy watches her shrink to a speck within a full moon. Doubtless, she’ll enjoy returning to her house on stilts, sleeping in fleece blankets.
Shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, Envy heads toward the fortress’s threshold, then stops. A tiny silhouette perches on the lowermost rampart, the figure’s runty limbs swinging over the side. Sorrow
wouldn’t have left so swiftly if she’d known he was here.
Malice and Wonder are about to leave, when Envy asks if he can hold on to the book for a while. After Malice threatens to castrate Envy if anything happens to the tome, the couple departs on their dragonfly.
When they’re gone, Envy changes direction and settles next to the child called Faith, who pouts at the blooming summit. His doleful expression contrasts with the buoyant gloss of his eyelashes. Also, he doesn’t react to Envy’s presence.
Together, they regard the panorama. “What’s got you so crabby?” Envy jokes, elbowing the moppet.
“I’m a good fighter,” Faith says.
Ah. That’s what’s bothering him. He’s crestfallen about being left out of the scrimmage. If Sorrow were here, she’d knock some sense into him.
“And whose side would you have chosen?” Envy asks.
“Neither,” the archer says. “I would have fought to stop all of you.”
“I know someone who’d agree with you. On that note, I like to think rebuilding is a better use of time than bloodshed. Care to help us resurrect the Hollow Chamber?”
That had been Wonder’s idea: Store the book in the Archives, the great library of the Peaks. More specifically, in the Hollow Chamber. The subterranean vault still lay in ruin, following that conflict between Wonder, Malice, and the Court months ago.
With peace on the horizon, they’ve agreed to rebuild that section of the Archives. A proper location to place the book.
The book which holds a brand-new legend.
A legend of their own making.
“I’ll tell you what.” Envy produces the tome and offers it to Faith. “Mind taking a look at this for us? We could use your feedback.”
The child accepts the book and swings his gaze toward Envy. “Why me?”
“Because I like your name more than mine.” Ruffling the archer’s hair, Envy stands and smooths out his ankle-length coat. “Though I still dress better.”
Faith compresses his lips, withholding a grin. “Then go impress someone who actually cares.” To illustrate, he flits his gaze toward the sky, to where Sorrow had disappeared.
Point taken. Envy throws back his head and laughs.
31
Sorrow
So much for getting some rest. Flinging aside the fleece blanket, she dresses and stalks out of the house. At the pier’s edge, the sea engulfs the stilts that prop up her home. The water trembles as it reflects planets and moons, and lanterns float across the depths, each one spurting flames.
Sorrow inhales the pure fragrance of starlight. Andrew had been right about the air smelling different in the Peaks. She hadn’t noticed the distinction before.
The breeze whips Sorrow’s skirt around her legs, the shredded material sweeping over her bare toes. She crosses her arms and rubs her pebbled flesh, even though she has no clue what cold feels like.
Or maybe it’s loneliness. She’s well-versed in that sensation.
Soon, daytime constellations will replace the night, trading a sky of evening violet for hydrangea blue. Sorrow groans. Her muscles ache like they never have, even by immortal standards, and the injuries from combat dig deeper than the ones she has given herself over the centuries.
But that’s not what keeps her from sleep.
For over two hundred years, she has been fine with living alone. She has been fine hogging the blanket and waking up without someone beside her.
Is this place still home? Or where is home now?
Is it a dwelling, or a landscape, or a realm? Or is it eight figures who’ve become family? Or is it a person?
A stroll along the boardwalk fails to alleviate her insomnia. To make matters worse—ugghhh—she takes the wrong path and ends up passing Love’s home, and then Anger’s home, and then Wonder’s home. Again, so much for rest. Though they should be wiped out, Sorrow detects the subtle but rapturous sounds drifting through the windows of each residence.
Allegedly, her band has been celebrating.
Love and Andrew’s giggles brim with a private afterglow as the goddess’s bed squeaks, in what can only be the sounds of play. Likely, they’re on the verge of chasing one another naked through the house.
The noises coming from Anger and Merry’s love shack harmonize like a song. The god’s tempestuous groan defies his injury, while his soul mate’s rhythmic, joyous gasps indicate that she’s on the receiving end of Anger’s tongue.
And Fates, forget Wonder and Malice. Based on the thrashing sheets, and the muffled taunts coming from Malice, and the panting moans from Wonder, they’re competing for who can dominate whom, which means they’ll be going at it for a while.
Actually, it sounds pretty hot.
Sweet, and passionate, and hot.
Sorrow can’t take it. The only place she thinks to go is the only place she wants to go. But since it’s not exactly around the corner, she flaps her arms wildly at the next dragonfly that zips by, stunned when the creature obliges.
Okay. This will take some getting used to.
Sheepishly, she expresses her gratitude before hopping on its back.
When the dragonfly deposits Sorrow at her destination, she discovers the cavern is vacant. She tiptoes inside, inhaling the fragrances of jasmine and myrrh.
That’s when she feels it. The peace, and the belonging, and the memories of three isolated days with the last person she’d ever wanted to be stuck with.
She has two options. The guest hollow he’d set up for her, with more fleece bedding, a collection of lamps, and that sensual robe she’d once worn, which had made him drop a fluted glass.
Or another room entirely.
Sorrow slinks into his sleeping chamber. Feeling greedy, she crawls into his bed, linen enveloping her body as she dissolves into blackness. And when she stirs with a grumble, hazy afternoon stars leak through the chasm.
Also, she’s not alone anymore.
The mattress sighs beneath a muscled weight, which curls like a shield around her. One arm has slid around her middle, tucking her spine against his chest, while the other rests above her hair, fingers brushing through the roots.
His shirt sleeves are jammed up his forearms, exposing almond flesh that clashes with her chalky skin. His knees bend into the coves of hers, and a pair of full lips brushes her temple. She knows the width and contours of his frame, and the pacing of his breaths, and the shifts of his clothes.
Tears spring to her eyes. Maybe she has the same effect, because when he speaks, his tone is haggard. “Have I ever told you I’m a fan of shredded skirts,” he chokes out. “They’re right up there with loafers and ascots.”
Sorrow half-chuckles, half-sniffles, which is better than letting snot drip onto his wrists. “Have I ever told you that you’re full of shit, Mister Narcissus?”
Envy’s chest rumbles. “That’s my nymph.”
“Who said I was your nymph?”
“You did,” he murmurs, his voice drenched with longing and something very close to eroticism. “You did in the middle of a star shower, unless my ears were deceiving me.”
He’s accurate about the former, but she hadn’t been sure what to expect afterward, or whether they’d broach the subject.
Those words. Those three words that she’d shouted like a maniac beneath the siege.
They’d chosen this, hadn’t they? Just like the legend had declared?
So why is it so terrifying to acknowledge?
Envy swallows, his whisper trailing down her lobe. “How long have you known?”
“I think it happened when you reminded me that I know how to feel a hug,” she answers.
For such a large physique, the god wrapped around her quavers, lighter than a fletching. “Fuck, Sorrow. All you had to do was just say so.”
“When was I supposed to do that? Anyway, what would you have said back?”
“Condemnation, I would have said two centuries worth of things.”
The words crack out of him, long suppressed.
He cannot mean…can he? But then she remembers another telling fact.
Her words splinter. “While we’re at it, why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Those two centuries of things?”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me where to find my arrow?”
Envy’s fingers stall in her hair. “Oh,” he draws out.
“Oh,” she parrots.
“How did you…” His words trail off, replaced by a shy baritone. “Come now. You’re a spitfire, if there ever was one. Don’t you know why I took it?”
“Not unless I’m clairvoyant,” she says.
“Then turn around and let me say this to your face.” Sorrow flops over, cocooned in his arms, his welted features swarming her vision. “Don’t you know that you’re every emotion I’ve ever felt? And then some?”
“Envy.”
“Not done yet.” He drops his forehead against hers, the digits of his left hand climbing into her scalp, those hazel eyes piercing hers. “I think I’ve been in love with you since the Peaks, since the day before we first parted ways into the mortal world. I asked if you’d miss me, and you told me to get lost. I loved you then. I love you now. I love your jibes and your cranky attitude. I’ve loved your desire to heal others and your courage in the face of pain.”
His free fingers undo the buttons of her vest. “I have loved your maddening wardrobe and glitter stars.”
The garment slides from her shoulders, his touch coasting down her breasts, the nipples puckering under his palms. “I love your preference for comfort food.”
Envy licks the seam of her mouth, prompting a mewl from her throat. “I love that you hide as much as you reveal.” With that, he leans over Sorrow, gently urging her farther into the bed. His digits slip beneath the skirt, skimming up her thigh, nudging them to spread.
“I love that you don’t care what others think, but you care how they feel,” Envy pants, his pupils exploding as he reaches the intimate patch of hair.
When his thumb presses into the sensitive crest, Sorrow arches into him, her eyes fluttering to stay open. A delicious haze fogs her mind. Wetness seeps out of her and coats his hand, making them both moan.
Transcend Page 29